


Deal with the Devil

by erbby17



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Cold War Era, Drama, M/M, More dub-con than non-con, Prussia as Kaliningrad, Sad, Soviet Family, self-loathing Prussia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erbby17/pseuds/erbby17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horrified by the prospect of his brother's demise, Germany begs Russia for a way to save the dying nation of Prussia. But at what cost to Prussia?</p><p>A series of short chapters detailing the events of Prussia's fate post-WWII.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the offer the fate

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old fic that I'm bringing over from ff[dot]net for an old fandom of mine, but this fic kind of always stayed with me for one reason or another. I've been hit with the inspiration to continue with it, although it might take a while for another touch of inspiration.
> 
> While I can't say for sure that there's no plot, this fic somewhat works as a set of small stories stringing along a vague concept of chronology. Everything is based on Himaruya's vol. 3 bio of Prussia stating he was now Kaliningrad, something I always kind of headcanoned myself.
> 
> Enjoy!

" _Bruder…_ "

Germany stared on into the dark room, its only inhabitant dying on the worn out cot. He could hear, feel, smell his brother's hitched breaths, the breaths of a Kingdom long dead. All that was left was the hollow shell of a man who only grew paler every time the sun set. Germany stepped inside, regret invading his pores the second his shoe tapped on the cold, cement floor. " _Bruder_ ," he repeated, watching as red eyes flickered dim before him.

"He will die."

Germany turned, surprised that anyone would bother to walk down this hall. Violet eyes smiled at him, a look the blonde couldn't stomach to trust.

"But you know this. It was your boss who dealt the first blow, _da_?"

Biting his lip, Germany turned to look onto his brother once more, that horrid feeling of guilt on his shoulders. "Yes," he struggled to say, tears daring to pour out from his tired blue eyes.

"And you did nothing." Russia sounded a tad more cheerful than was appropriate for the occasion. But he stayed at the doorway, never once entering the cold room.

Germany couldn't admit aloud that Russia was right, not when his brother looked like that.

"Will you do nothing today?"

A shaking hand to the cold one on the cot, Germany wanted nothing more than peace for his brother. But the thought of his inevitable, belated death…

Germany couldn't part from his own selfish wish, to keep his brother alive. But what good was that to Prussia?

"I can help you," Russia cooed at the doorway. "I can keep him living. And in much better condition than he is now."

He could almost feel the tears dissolve from his face, Germany's hope for his brother returning. He ran to the door, clutching Russia's coat, his hands shaking from a torrent of emotions. "Y-you…"

Germany tried his hardest to ignore that look in Russia's eyes, violet orbs that reeked of pity. They stung through Germany like a burning blade, but he had to keep Prussia alive.

"You will take my offer?"

"Yes…YES! Please! Anything…anything to keep him alive…"

Russia smiled and wrapped his gloved hands around Germany's jaw, cradling the nation's face in his palms. "We will sign Law 46 soon, Ludwig. He will die…"

"RUSSIA, PLEASE! SAVE MY BROTHER! Please…"

Violet eyes grew deeper and Russia placed a gentle kiss on Germany's forehead, sealing the deal. "It is done."

...

The wheels of the wheelchair creaked on the pavement, cracks endangering the vehicle's trip. "I swear, once I get out of this chair, I'm getting the fuck away from you, Russia," the former nation spat, embarrassed by his wheelchair-bound weakness.

"But, Gilbert, you still have so much energy to regain," Russia nearly sang, guiding the wheelchair through the zigzags of the broken street. "We are almost there."

"Almost where, asshole?"

"Kaliningrad."

The former German-state tilted his head back in confusion, unaware of that name. "Kaliningrad? What the fuck is that?"

"Your home, Gilbert."

The wheelchair-bound man grew more confused, previous conversations of his Cold War era home reeling in his mind. "I thought I was going to live in Berlin…"

"No. Berlin is part of East _Germany_. You will live in Kaliningrad."

"Yeah, but I thought I _was_ 'East Germany' or someth…"

The wheelchair stopped short, nearly propelling Gilbert from his seat. "No. That is Germany."

"But…"

"Gilbert. You are not Germany. And you are no longer Prussia. Prussia is dead. You are mine, now. And you will live in Kaliningrad."

Gilbert hated that phrase, Prussia is dead. Bullshit, _Prussia was dead_. He was still there. True, he was reduced to being pushed around in a wheelchair, but that was only temporary. Gilbert was sure to regain his status as a proud nation, and show all those Allied jack-offs just how dead he was.

"…or perhaps you will recognize it better as Königsberg, _da_?"

Gilbert's dimmed red-eyes widened and stared straight into the closed lids of Russia's eyes. "Wh-what..?" His body shook. Black spots disrupted his vision, only stopping when a gloved hand traced his neck and grabbed hold of it.

"You are mine, Gilbert. Königsberg is mine. And that is all that is left of you. Although, I'd hardly even call it you. The people here are Russian…"

The gloved hand tightened around Gilbert's neck, pushing it up for a poisoned kiss. But Gilbert couldn't resist, too weak to fight back. Or was that an excuse, to keep the horrid thought of being owned by Russia out of head? No, he wasn't Russia's property, he would never…

"Good boy," Russia said, pulling back and loosening his hand before brushing it though silver strands. "I will stay with you, of course, until you are well enough to travel from here to Moscow."

Gilbert nodded, against his own will. He wanted to spit, to kick that bastard and run back to Berlin, run back to Germany, back to his brother. But there was something keeping him from doing so…

" _D-da_ ," he responded, feeling his tongue tainted by that Slavic sound, just like his precious Königsberg, destroyed and rebuilt. For Russia…


	2. the bitter the sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the dub-con/non-con is in this chapter.

The beads of sweat fizzled and burned on Gilbert's flesh; his whole body stung with the force of their electricity. The air was thin and chilled his lungs and veins with fierce cold, battling with the heat upon his flesh.

"Hmm, a little more towards me," Russia instructed, his finger leering Gilbert forward like a magnet.

Gilbert cringed, his body filled to the brim with the monster's abnormally large member. "W-well," he choked between gasps. "I'm trying."

"But not hard enough," Russia scolded with a smirk, waving that finger in disapproval, ghosting it over the tip of Gilbert's desperate erection.

 _This fucking bastard_ , he cursed in his mind, the little red ribbon below getting tighter with every swerve of his hips. Russia had hit that spot a while ago; Gilbert's movements only seemed to be working on him rather than the dominant one who lay on the bed, gazing up playfully at the former-nation's desperate attempts to please him.

Russia's finger traced up Gilbert's twitching vein, from the ribbon up to his seeping tip. "Look how selfish you are being," he taunted in a sing-song voice, resting his gloved hand on Gilbert's bruised hip. "Do not think you will get release first. You are working for _me_ right now."

"F-FUCK YOU," Gilbert cried in a mess of spit and tears, this unbearable tension about to burst every vein in his body. "I'm…m-moving as best as I can, now come already!"

Russia chuckled, his eyes a shimmering shade of violet. "Do it properly and I will."

A quiver threatened Gilbert's lips, his body crudely perched upon this bastard's hips, swirling and twirling in circles like a common street-whore. Of course, that is exactly how Russia referred to Gilbert, his status as nation long since demoted to enclave of the World's Newest Insane Asylum. This man had accumulated a disgusting amount of surrounding countries into his Soviet family, a tight-knit group of chronic twitchers. But Gilbert was somehow less than them and for some reason, closer to becoming "One" with the new Big Bad.

Slowly swallowing what little pride remained in his body, Gilbert put a bit more effort into his body's movements, however impossible he thought it to be. And without fail, his gentler hip swirls managed to get a peep of approval from Russia's mouth, his hands reaching up to clutch at Gilbert's sides.

"G-good job," he moaned, being so kind as to guide the ex-nation's body up along his length.

Gilbert tossed his head back, crying out from the new set of sensations that emerged from this new direction. His body slid up and down, aided by the Russian's tight hands at his waist, his body well too accustomed to its recent occupant. And with a few more proper swivels, that red ribbon unraveled along with all of Gilbert's seed.

Sweet release, a feeling he so rarely experienced anymore. Gilbert moaned, his body completely numb and covered in a film of sweat.

"You…did well, Gilbert," Russia said, lifting the spent ex-nation off him and sitting up to cradle the limp man in his lap, hands framing around his delirious expression. "I think it is time for us to go to Moscow, _da_?"

Unaware of the large nation's existence, let alone ejaculation, Gilbert's head moved gently in Russia's cupped hands, growing far too comfortable with their presence; why his lips moved right to those fingers for a kiss was beyond his comprehension in this current state. "Okay," he mumbled, crumpling into nothing in Russia's eager arms.

He shouldn't have been feeling the comfort of this man's hold, shouldn't have accepted the sweetness of Russia's lips on his tired flesh. Gilbert's aching eyes glanced down, watching that soft tongue lick over healing wounds from years past. Would this become customary, once in Moscow? Would he be holed up in the corner of Russia's room until hailed for sexual abuse? Other nations would be there, their eyes scanning him with pity; no longer a nation, now only a toy.

Russia's teeth nipped lightly at Gilbert's numbed flesh, twisting the pale skin between ivory blockades. The thought of Moscow pained Gilbert; how much farther would he be from…

"West," he choked out, clutching Russia's head to his chest, drowning himself in the slight sensations before losing himself to his indefinite loneliness.


	3. the chilling the warm

The chill in the air snuck passed the confines of Gilbert's scarf, chilling the albino despite his many layers. He sighed, well aware of how severe Moscow winters were, but he needed to get out of that house. The crying sister, the one with the dagger, the trembling trio; Gilbert didn't belong among the collective of Soviets. But his decision to brave the winter chill was a bit more suicidal than dealing with that Russian's "family".

Small mounds of snow bordered his chosen path throughout this barren part of the city. A few dead trees sat in the distance and Gilbert cocked his head to the side, curious to whatever was hanging from one. An old swing dangled from the tree branch, the rope well worn from weather. Walking up to it, he brushed his hand along the snow covered wood of the seat, nostalgia slipping past his gloves, into his fingers, and surging up to his mind.

 _Push me higher,_ Bruder _!_

"West," his lips mumbled soundlessly, his hand on the rope, tightening his hold around it.

How many years had he been bound to Russia and his Soviet Union? Had he forgotten the taste of the German language? Had he lost the name Prussia and all the glory it held? He sighed and looked up at the branch, the two ropes splintering off into death. That's all he was, a dying string, hanging from Russia's finger. His fate was in that man's hands and one false move could send him plummeting into the abyss of nothingness.

"Gilbert, what are you doing here?"

He didn't want to turn his head, choosing not to acknowledge that voice. "There's just no getting away from you, is there…"

Russia's footsteps echoed in the crunching snow and once behind Gilbert, his arms wrapped around the ex-nation's chest. He brought his enclave in close, gliding his nose along the reddened shell of Gilbert's ear. "It is cold today; you should come back to the house."

Gilbert's lip twitched, his body closer to Russia's than he deemed necessary. "It's cold every fucking day, outside or not," he hissed, his grip on the rope spelling danger for the abandoned swing.

Russia didn't respond, his breaths soft and low in Gilbert's ear. "Why did you come out here?"

 _Why did you have to follow me_ , Gilbert shouted in his mind, not daring to speak it out since he already knew the answer. "I was bored," he whispered, small puffs of air barely lingering in the air.

The grip around Gilbert's chest tightened slightly, a kiss finding its way past the silver-haired man's scarf and onto his neck. "I get lonely when you leave, Gilbert," Russia said into flesh, his voice sounding oddly sad.

"Lonely? How the fuck do you get lonely in that house?"

There was another bout of vocal silence, Russia's body taking the chance to speak instead; his hand slid up Gilbert's chest and cradled his chin gently, moving his head for forced eye contact.

Gilbert wasn't prepared to see those violet orbs so dull in color, their power slipping away and replaced with a painful sadness. This couldn't have been Russia, this was a different person entirely, but regardless, Gilbert couldn't resist. He leaned in, his hand lifting to rest upon ivory hair and bringing two pairs of chapped lips together. Two small caves of warmth, trying desperately to fight the bitter cold; Gilbert could even taste a new flavor on Russia's tongue, one he drank up eagerly before stopping entirely.

He broke away from the kiss with fierce rejection. Bright red fires rose in his eyes, staring back at the childlike expression on Russia's face. What was this?

A sad smile cracked on Russia's moistened lips, his hand reaching for Gilbert's shaking one. "Let us go back," he said, turning around and walking towards the "madhouse".

Gilbert nodded, squeezing Russia's gloved hand and following his hunched form. Who was this person and why did they decide to take over Russia's body? Who would ever want to do such a thing?

A blush settled upon Gilbert's chilled cheeks, and he squeezed Russia's hand once more, secretly hoping for a response.

Ivan squeezed back…


	4. the sunlight the scars

Soft white light blinded Gilbert awake, the morning sun glistening upon the snow and reflecting past the window and on his face. He groaned, tempted to roll away from the light, but he knew what he'd see on the other side. Of course, sleep was what the silver-haired enclave desired most at the time and he turned his body away from the sun, his tired eyes flickering open to Russia's sleeping form.

Gilbert was sure the previous night would never end; but even a nation's body had its limits, and once Russia hit his, Gilbert's work was done. "Bastard," Gilbert said in a yawn, a small pang lingering in his weakening body.

Falling into comfort on the bed, Gilbert was prepared to return to sleep, but the sun shimmered off Russia's chest, only partly covered by the blanket. The former nation cocked his head to the side, noticing the pale tracings of scars on the Russian nation's form. He never had the chance to nor cared to give a careful glance at Russia's body, but when the normally-threatening man lapsed into such a state of vulnerability, Gilbert couldn't resist. He sat up, resting his body on a propped elbow. Ghosting his hand over the fluttering flesh, Gilbert chanced a finger to glide over the variety of scars on the Soviet nation's chest. Granted, Gilbert had his own, but there was something fascinating about seeing Russia with scars; one would think that nothing could pierce this man's flesh, but here was proof against that misconception.

Gilbert's thin fingers glided over jagged lines and odd curves, counting ribs and absorbing warmth, until a tight grasp at this wrist interrupted his exploring.

"What are you doing," Russia asked, his eyes shut tight and his voice threateningly low.

His red eyes were fixed on the scars and Gilbert answered simply, "Just looking at your scars."

The grip around Gilbert's wrist loosened, the strong hand once wrapped around it now deciding to rest on the pale man's thigh. "Oh," Russia said, shifting slightly, his thumb rubbing the tattered flesh beneath it.

Gilbert ignored Russia's touch and merely focused on his task at hand, trying to count the scars that littered Russia's body. They painted a story of war, of strife, of time. He could almost place what each one represented, but cared little, just wanting to imprint the concept of Russia with scars in his mind.

"You have them, too," Russia said, his hand now roaming along Gilbert's torso. "They look so cute on you," he said with a small laugh sneaking past his words.

But Gilbert was lost in his exploration, paying no mind to Russia and fingers following the hills and zigzags of the white and pink lines on ivory skin. Even the glide of Russia's rough hand across his chest couldn't shake him from his trance, until that hand grasped at his neck and pulled him down for an unfitting, gentle kiss.

His hand falling limp on Russia's flesh, Gilbert fell into the rare sweetness of Russia's tongue; for once, there was a lack of dominance. It was just a kiss, a kiss that tossed Gilbert into another trance.

Soon, Russia was propped above him on the bed, his position allowing the sunlight to reveal more secrets on the larger nation's body.

"You can look later," Russia whispered over lips, his hands gripping tightly at his enclave's wrists.

For once, Gilbert let the grasp on his wrists tighten. If it meant he would see more of Russia's vulnerability, he would do anything…


	5. the present the past

"What's happened to you?"

Every night, those words haunted Gilbert in his sleep, in a voice unmistakably familiar as his own. He opened his eyes, though he was still asleep, lying still on those stained white sheets.

His vision was blank, nothing but darkness and a few twinkling lights that may have been stars.

"What the fuck has happened to you? How could you let this happen?"

"I had no choice," he said in a voice much more hoarse than the one speaking to him.

"What do you mean, no choice," the voice said, its form materializing as his former self, draped in a war jacket from 200 years passed. "You're Prussia. Or at least, you were. Now what the fuck are you?"

Gilbert took in a long, shuddering breath, trying to resist the truth. "Kaliningrad."

A breathy laugh responded, its form crossing its arms and glaring down at the figure in the bed. "Pathetic."

Silently, Gilbert agreed, his eyes locked on the floating reflection above him, though so starkly different from his current self. There was color in his face, which scowled so much of arrogance and pride. His body was thicker, more built, and exuded a shimmer of military glory. Of course he'd look pathetic now. "But there's a lot that's happened in these 200 years, asshole," he spat, smirking at the figure's red glare. "And there's a lot that neither you nor I could have controlled. Like this."

"It would've been better if you just died, rather than living as someone else's toy. Especially his. That's low."

Gilbert laughed and sat up, his face inches from the transparent illusion in his mind. "Yeah, maybe it is. But I've been toyed with before, and I at least know how to survive."

"You call this surviving?"

"With him? Yeah, actually, I do."

The stillness of the night ushered in a bitter silence, Gilbert's apparition gently fading. "You've grown soft," it said, a quiver on its lips. "For him."

Gilbert turned, and saw the sleeping form of Russia, vulnerable as he had been the night Gilbert discovered his scars. "Yeah," he said, his mind absent of thought, of purpose. Maybe he had. But it made sense, he was essentially a part of Russia now. That's why he had no room of his own in the house, unlike the other Soviet states, all separate, but together. Individual, but one. He lacked the former, and represented the latter.

He turned back, his head now against his pillow on the bed. "Are you going to leave, and stop mocking me?"

But the illusion was gone, vanished from sight. Gilbert's eyes were closed, he was asleep, but a single word slipped past his numb lips, "Never."


	6. the sister the lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All previous chapters were written back in 2010 - 2011. This is my first chapter in 4 years.

The knife spun several times in her hand, meeting the table counter with a deafening thunk. 

“How is it?”

Her voice was laced with an odd mix of jealous and condescension. The knife spun once more. _Thunk._

“Being brother’s bitch?”

Gilbert was used to these types of interrogations, most of them at breakfast. Still exhausted from the previous night’s escapades, his tired eyes kept focus on the wall opposite him, and every day he would find new cracks in the paint. He brought his mug to his lips, hoping the searing heat of the coffee would burn his throat so he wouldn’t have to answer Belarus.

_Thunk._

“We heard you last night,” she said. _Thunk._ “Everyone.” _Thunk._ “Every night.”

He took a bigger sip, gulping down his coffee, black and bitter, but not as hot as he would have liked in this instance. “Yeah, I bet, your brother’s loud as fuck.”

_Thunk._

“Not just him,” she responded through gritted teeth. “You are, too.”

“Bela!” 

Gilbert didn’t even notice the other sister’s presence, but Ukraine always tried to ease the tension, pathetically. Her sister’s determined obsessed could never ebb, and Gilbert got off on pissing her off, occasionally. This morning was one of those particular occasions. 

He smirked, his teeth clanking against the ceramic lip of the mug. He had to admit, the previous night did get a little rough, his backside still throbbing and sore. “Oh yeah? What did I sound like?”

_Thunk._

The knife didn’t return to her hands, but stuck out from the table amid the other gashes it had made. Belarus grabbed its hilt, twisting it deeper into the wood. “A bitch,” she said, her lip twitching up in a sneer. 

Gilbert leaned back in his seat, the conversation infinitely more refreshing than his stale cup of coffee. “Elaborate,” he said, pushing the chair back onto its two back legs. “What does a bitch sound like? Was I barking? Cooing at your brother to suckle at my nipples?”

“You!!!” Belarus plucked the knife from the table and catapulted herself towards Gilbert. Ukraine could barely get there in time to hold her sister back, but Gilbert simply smirked, satisfied in what he knew was going to happen.

“Then do it,” he said, flicking his head towards her. “Stab the bitch you hate so much.”

Her hand clutched the knife until her knuckles paled. The blade was inches from Gilbert’s throat, but it never touched his flesh; it remained in her shaking hands, tears starting to pool from her eyes.

Gilbert pitied her, as he pitied everyone in this house. “Can’t do it, huh,” he said, his tone soft and losing its aggressive edge. “Yeah, I know that.” He rocked his chair forwards, landing it on all fours before getting up from the table.

As much as she wanted to, Belarus could never deal a lethal blow to Gilbert. He had figured out a pretty decent theory, too; a bit of Russia was now inside him. She could never harm her beloved brother, and in turn, she could never harm Gilbert. He grabbed her hand and started to peel her fingers from the knife.

“Don’t touch me,” she shrieked, nearly choking on her tears. “You disgust me!”

Gilbert let the knife fall from her hands, clanging on the table. “Yeah,” he said, watching her fall into her chair, curling into a ball, sobbing into her still shaking hands. “I disgust me, too.”


	7. the craving the changing

When did he begin to crave this? Maybe it was the bitter cold, where even inside walls it bit you down to your bones. Maybe it was his loneliness, losing track of the time he had spent in this imprisoned tundra, craving just a bit of companionship, no matter the companion. Or maybe it was Russia’s little bouts of vulnerability, which Gilbert eagerly ate up. He desired to see the man break down, and he drank every drop of it he could find.

There would be nights where all three factors came into play, where their mouths would expel puffs of chill before their heat created steam. And his touch was enough to make Gilbert forget everything, where he would lose all sight, all mind, where it was just touch and pleasure, maybe a bit of pain. But Gilbert craved that, too. Russia’s eyes often looked so dim, so lifeless, that moments like these would recharge them to piercing violets, and Gilbert wanted nothing more than to see them tear up. All because of him.

Their positions always started the same way; Russia liked for his partners to work for their pleasure, as well as his own, so Gilbert was generally perched on top of him, swiveling his hips.

He had gotten used to it, and while most of his body grew thin and practically emaciated, his hips and thighs had grown strong, more muscular than ever before. He used to struggle in this position; riding Russia was a punishment met with pain, until it became routine, a routine he hated to write out of his book.

On those nights of craving, Gilbert would want more and his eyes would be locked on Russia’s face, eyes shut tight, jaw clenched. One forward push would part those lips and that’s when Gilbert would feed.

He didn’t even need to lean down anymore; Russia, or rather _Ivan_ would sit up, meeting him with a hot, breathy kiss. Gilbert would continue to grind until Ivan picked up the speed, sweaty palms gliding over flesh, desperate to get a tight grip, teeth nipping and tugging. Gilbert fell into it, his voice cracking in moans.

And then, on the rarest of occasions, Gilbert would find his back upon the mattress, Ivan hovering above, taking the lead, his sadistic streak gone as he craved as well; just like Gilbert wanted. The intimacy was perfect, and together, another rarity, they would come apart, releasing all of their tension in one harmonized cry. And although his weight was too much to bear, the feeling of Ivan’s body crushing Gilbert from above reminded him that yes, he was still alive. He could still feel, he could still breathe. Often he hated the reminder of his meager existence, but Ivan’s cold sweat upon his flesh caused a sort of relief. 

And on some nights, he thought he could live with this; it was more than enough. Until Russia returned and the craving ebbed. It would last for so long…


	8. the ground the wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter I've been waiting to write and post for years, since I first got into this fandom, in fact. I can proudly say, it's everything I've always wanted it to be. Please enjoy!

The tracks had been abandoned for several years, long before the war, but Gilbert had some fleeting hope as he lay along the length of them, that they might spring back to service. For hours, he had been there, flat on his back, the planks pushing up against his brittle spine, his face to the puffy clouds above, covering his body with snow. His hands and feet had long since gone numb and he was waiting while the tingling snuck up his arms and legs.

He could hear the crunching in the distance, slowly growing closer. He would have turned out of curiosity, but the flakes had stopped melting at his flesh, instead piling up on his pale skin.

“Gilbert,” he heard, once the crunching stopped. 

_Russia._

He cringed internally, his face unable to move a muscle.

“You will get frost bite,” Russia said, casting Gilbert in a soft shadow, the sun hidden from the blanket of clouds. “If you haven’t already.”

Gilbert couldn’t respond, as much as he wanted to, and it made his lips painfully twitch in a smile; this could work. Without Russia’s interference, lying in this bitter snow could end it all. Maybe not today, but it could work.

Russia smiled. “What makes you so happy, Gilbert?”

How he managed to smile was still a mystery; he voice was also frozen.

Russia sat down on the snow beside the tracks and leaned his face over Gilbert, that sickening smirk still on his lips. “Is that all you can do? Smile?”

Something rose up inside Gilbert, a small fire within the freezing chill and snow. The tingling stopped and for a moment, he thought he could feel his hands again. He reached out and grabbed Russia’s scarf, pulling him with all his power until the larger man fell on top of him. Gilbert kept his grip tight and took in Russia’s mouth, kissing him with hot intensity. The heat rose in his lips, the wetness of their tongues melting the snow off Gilbert’s face. He forgot to pause for a breath, becoming lost in tasting Russia, in finding Ivan, in reaching into this man deeper than anyone would dare.

Russia broke first, pulling up and away, his face pink, whether from the cold or the moment. His breaths were hitched, but Gilbert still had a hold on him. “Gilbert, what are you…”

“I’m not done,” he croaked out, pulling Russia down once more, his other hand regaining feeling to grab at the other man’s crotch. His finger froze, but not at the cold, at another hand gripping tightly around his.

Russia pulled from the kiss, more delicately this time, capturing Gilbert’s lips between his teeth before releasing it with a light pop. “Not here,” he said, his expression softer than it should have been. “You are weak, it is not good for you.”

The sensations pulsating throughout Gilbert’s body agreed with Russia’s words. Finally, he could feel the pain of the cold, the pain his numbed hands and feet were trying to escape. He groaned and nodded, tears daring to speckle in his face in the snow.

“Yeah,” he sobbed, nodding.

Russia smiled, one arm separating Gilbert’s back from the wooden planks of the track, the other scooping up his legs. “We will go inside now,” Russia whispered, his hot breath stinging against the numbness of Gilbert’s ear.

Cradled in his arms, Gilbert clung to Russia’s coat, desperate for warmth. As he moved, Gilbert’s eyes fluttered and immediately, he fell asleep.

-

They opened once his body felt the rattling and bumps of movement. Opening his eyes, Gilbert found himself on a train, sitting between Russia and the window that revealed the continuing storm outside. “Where,” he said, his voice still cracking from the cold.

“We are going on a short trip,” Russia said, his voice not quite stern. “You need it, I think.”

Gilbert nodded, his eyes focused on the frosted glass. His head fell to Russia’s shoulder and again, his eyes fluttered close.

-

The rustling in the train woke Gilbert once more. His face was against the glass of the window, now chilled from the cold on the other side. He rubbed his eyes and turned his head, spotting Russia standing in the aisle, grabbing their luggage from the overhead rack. Gilbert cleared his throat and looked out at their location, still unsure of where Russia decided to take him. 

“Where are we?”

“Up,” Russia said, avoiding a response. “We don’t have much time before our next train. We must be quick here.”

Gilbert groaned, rolling his shoulders and stretching his back. “Where even is here?” 

Again, no response. Gilbert accepted it, as he usually did, and shuffled out of his seat, following Russia off the train. The sun shocked his eyes, but there wasn’t much of it with all the clouds in the sky. Soon, it would be shielded again. Along the streets, Gilbert realized he had not been out in public for quite sometime. Some of the clothing he saw looked rather odd, not at all on par with what the style should have been, at least to him. Even the language he heard seemed strange, so bitterly foreign. It was as if Russia took him to another planet; judging by Russia’s recent technological adventures, he wouldn’t be far off with that assumption.

The road signs, in what he assumed to be the same strange language, seemed harsh, their lettering almost intimidating. “Did you send me to some alien planet or what? Does that idiot across the ocean know you’ve gone this far?”

Russia chuckled, hiding his mouth in his scarf. “No, we have yet to get that far. Both of us,” he said.

“I can’t understand a thing these people are saying,” Gilbert said, scoffing at a couple passing by. “And it looks gloomy as all hell. What’s with that fence in the distance?”

Up ahead, Gilbert noticed several ominous buildings along a wire fence, its sole presence foreboding. As he walked closer, he saw what he thought to be military barracks, with a watchtower poised within the center. Beyond it all, he spotted a wall, and that’s when his stomach dropped.

Slowly, the language he heard in the air became less foreign, the signs morphing into something more comprehensible, more familiar. Horror filled him, down to his core, and with a gaped mouth he frantically looked around, the area flooding back into his memory.

“Ber…lin,” he mouthed, and German flooded his ears for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He sprinted towards the fence, grabbing it and started shaking it in his hands. Two officers started yelling at him, making their way towards Gilbert in his rage. He kept shaking the fence, his eyes focused on the wall beyond.

“Stop! Move away from the fence!!”

As the officers rounded on Gilbert, he immediately turned his attention to his travel companion, who had materialized beside him during his rage. He hands flew, grabbing the coat tighter than his fingers could manage, his hands shaking. “What the fuck happened here?!?!”

The officers were screaming, but were stopped when Russia lifted a hand. “I have papers,” he said in a broken German that only further enraged Gilbert.

“You’re a fucking monster! Did you do this?! What the fuck happened to my city?!”

Russia kept his eyes forward and cold, only conversing with the officers. He pried Gilbert from his coat effortlessly, and motioned towards the guards. “Follow them,” he said.

“Like hell I will! Fucking tell me what happened here!!!”

“Herr Beilschmidt,” one of the officers said, and Gilbert twitched at his name, unsure of when it came up in the conversation. “Follow us.”

Gilbert shuddered in a breath and his legs carried him along the path behind the guards. His mind was reeling as they lead him through a heavy metal door, guarded by two other men, and into a concrete hallway. This was Berlin, he was speaking German, his true self was resurfacing, and his hatred for Russia had reached a new level. Gilbert was led back into the dim sunlight, and he was face to face with the wall that before had been beyond his grasp. 

“What even is this?” His eyes looked up the wall, noticing the rounded top.

“The Berlin Wall,” said the voice within the throat he most wanted to strangle. “We are in East Berlin. Beyond lies West Berlin, closed off from the rest of East Germany.”

He placed a hand on the wall, its surface rough and cold. Glancing back at the buildings and the fence beyond, he figured he was one of the few to actually touch this piece of prison wall. “So this is keeping us locked in?”

“No,” Russia said, and Gilbert grimaced when he could hear the smile. “To keep _them_ out.”

Gilbert’s fingers curled, attempting to make a fist against the wall, and scratching off little pieces of concrete. They built a wall, in his home, in his heart, and sealed off his only hope for escape. He swallowed the sobs that tried to move past his lips, shutting out the tears. Not now, not here. Resting his head against the concrete, he could suddenly feel a pulse of warmth. 

_West_ , the thought pressing his body to the wall, hugging it until it would let him seep through. The warmth grew and he knew it wasn’t his imagination; West was there. 

“West,” he croaked out, looking up at the top of the wall. “West, it’s me!!!”

Faintly, he though he heard someone call, “Bruder!” He pressed his ear to the wall, still clinging to it. The warmth spread, and he could feel West on the other side, their hands pressed against the wall at the exact same spot. He smiled, his body tingling with a sensation he once recalled as happiness. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of West on the other side fill him, and suddenly he dropped to the ground. Everything went black.


End file.
